


phantom between us

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Married Couple, Past Character Death, Strained Relationships, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: There’s a bed in the guest-room, and the heat clicked on, and Arthur stares at the door to his room. He doesn’t knock, because there’s a man he’s never met on the other side of the door, a man whose absence he can never compete with. He bites his fist as he curls beneath the stiff duvet and prays to the ceiling his cries are silent.





	phantom between us

Merlin is clinging to Arthur’s hand as they stroll along the beach. It’s a nondescript Tuesday in March, the tail of winter still clinging to the air. There’s a breeze that’s made visitors scarce; ahead of them there’s a couple of specks, brightly colored and too loud, denoting a single family out to play. Merlin is quiet. He’s staring at the waves, scarf wrapped across his nose and knit cap pulled low on his brows. Dark curls jerk in the wind, and Arthur reaches out, gently tugs one. 

“Need a haircut.” He says it quiet, absently. 

Merlin nods and continues to watch the birds. Arthur sighs, a heavy thing that still gets lost in the crash of the waves. He’s not wearing gloves and he has to flex his fingers to keep them from going too stiff. The shiny new metal on his finger glints in the dim sun and he twist it around his finger.

It’s a nondescript Tuesday to the family up the coast, but to Merlin, it’s a dark thing. A bird crows, some ugly grey monster that slashes before them, and Merlin’s eyes track it like he expects a banner to burst from the creature’s butt. 

“He isn’t here, Merls.” It’s absolutely the wrong thing to say, if the way Merlin’s whole body spasms like Arthur’s stuck him is anything to go by. But Arthur continues. “He’s a memory. That’s all he is now.” 

Merlin turns towards him, hate a gold streak in his blue eyes. His mouth, usually plush and tempting is a thin line, white from the cold, white from the way Merlin clenches his jaw. Arthur’s dug his grave, and he figures he might as well keep going. “You must let him go. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“To you.” The words sound like they’ve been ripped from the darkest part of Merlin. Full of fury and hate and pain, so angry Arthur has to release Merlin’s hand.

“That isn’t true, and you know it. What did Alice tell you, last time you saw her?” 

Merlin remains silent, working his jaw, clenching his teeth so hard Arthur fears they’ll shatter in his mouth. He tries to reach a hand out, tries brush his knuckles under Merlin’s chin. Merlin takes a step back. 

“You can’t keep coming here. It isn’t healthy.” Arthur tries to keep his voice level, calm. But he’s beginning to feel the burn between his pecs, that strange tingle at the base of his spine. “It isn’t fair,” he says. It comes out a helluva lot more choked than he wanted, spills between them rancid and broken.

Merlin’s eyes track the water. Every shadow under the dark surface, every bob of a bird waiting for a snack. He’s looking for a swatch of dark hair, for a bright purple board, an even brighter wetsuit. He’s waiting for the cry, shoulders tense, feet positioned to sprint. He’s holding his breath, and Arthur can see he’s a hundred miles away and three years behind.

Arthur hates March. It’s never been a particularly important month; most years it was there and gone with only the shift in the weather to announce its existence. Now though, it is the month he must share Merlin with a ghost. Where he must watch his new husband fade into some sketch of himself, eyes always foggy and mind never present. 

Arthur never met Gwaine; Merlin’s ex was a year before his time. But he lives with him, with his memories, with what his death has done. Most of the year, it’s easy to handle, to brush away. But fucking March rolls around and Arthur might as well be the ghost for all his presence is worth. It wouldn’t be as hard, he thinks, if there was something he could  _ do _ to help. Something more than holding Merlin’s hand, than leading him to the shore, than wrapping him in quilts and reminding him to eat.

It makes him ache, sometimes, the guilt of his frustration. It’s not fair, he recons, to expect Merlin to be okay in this time. But he isn’t asking that, really. “Let me in, Merlin. Let me help.” 

  
He tries again to reach for Merlin, but his husband turns away and begins the slow trek away from the water. He’ll be quiet the rest of the day, withdrawn. Arthur isn’t entirely sure he won’t just disappear when they get back to the manor. He’ll maybe let Arthur into his bed, let him hold him in the dark. But Arthur’s already made sure there are fresh linens in the guest room and set the heat to turn up before bed.

Part of him thinks he should follow, should try to catch up to Merlin. He should walk back with him and sit by him in the kitchen. Should brew a pot of tea that’ll go cold and hold the hand of a man who is only half aware. He should wake up tomorrow, hold Merlin as he sobs, walk with him to the grave and hover in the background as Merlin talks to a cruel stone. He should do all of these things, and more, and help Merlin through this. It’s been three years, and it sounds like a long time, but Arthur knows it isn’t. 

He can’t though, do what part of him thinks he should. He studies the ring on his finger, watches it shimmer in the fading sun, then slips it off and into his pocket. 

There’s a bed in the guest-room, and the heat clicked on, and Arthur stares at the door to his room. He doesn’t knock, because there’s a man he’s never met on the other side of the door, a man whose absence he can never compete with. He bites his fist as he curls beneath the stiff duvet and prays to the ceiling his cries are silent. 

In the morning when he wakes, his ring is still in his pocket. He leaves it there as he makes toast and tea, as he knocks on the bedroom door. Merlin lets him in, eyes puffy and red-rimmed. He’s already dressed, but he nibbles on the toast as he waits for Arthur. They walk silent and separate to the cemetery and Arthur hovers under a desert willow. 

Merlin takes his hand on the walk back. When he doesn’t feel the metal band, he gives Arthur a curious look, but doesn’t ask. Arthur thinks  _ fuck phantoms _ and stares resolutely ahead. 


End file.
